


The Choir Boy of Honnleath

by Pen99



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Child Cullen Rutherford, Childhood, Chior-Boy Cullen, Gen, Honnleath, Pre-Dragon Age, Pre-Templar Cullen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:46:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pen99/pseuds/Pen99
Summary: Rosalie is an infant.Mia is a scholar.Branson is a troublemaker.And Cullen... Cullen is a Choir Boy.A childhood!AU, wherein Cullen first decides to join the Templars.





	The Choir Boy of Honnleath

9:19 Dragon

     Cullen yelped as Rosalie’s fat fingers tugged at his curls. By the Maker’s will, his cry of pain died as a whimper. Cullen was on his knees, his infant sister riding atop his back. Rosalie flexed her fingers, and reached for a scruff of blonde below his neck. This time, Cullen was prepared. He tightened his shoulders and arched his back. To keep balanced, Rosalie dropped Cullen’s curls and secured her arms around his neck.

     With Rosalie in place, Cullen set his eyes back upon the oak. His elder sister, Mia, stood under the canopy of leaves. As she swayed, her nose brushed against the trunk. Eyes still clenched tight, Mia’s thumb sprang up to relieve the itch.  

     “Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven…” Mia taunted. Her sprightly voice cut across the field. “Cullen! I can hear you. Branson! I know where you are.”

     Branson, belly downward in the dirt, lay on the other side of the oak. He pulled himself forward by shimmying his elbows and hips. Unburdened by the weight of a squirming Rosalie, Branson approached the oak without effort. Branson halted within arm’s reach of Mia’s ankles. He caught Cullen’s eye, and smugly pushed his tongue between his lips. Rosalie giggled at her brother’s haughty display.

      “Hush, Rosie.” Mia instructed. Rosalie, recognizing her nickname, giggled again. “If you want to play with us, you have to follow the rules. Cullen?”

     Cullen reached behind his head and gently pinched Rosalie’s lips. She huffed once, but heeded Mia. Oblivious to his sibling’s exchange, Branson pushed upwards to full height. Cullen, who normally had a foot on Branson, was eye level with his hips. In Branson’s left hand, he clutched Rosalie’s left shoe.

      “Tevinter in City!” Branson howled. Without warning, he broke into a sprint. “Tevinter in City!” He tossed his head back and laughed. “What say you, Mia?”

     Mia, age eleven, was the eldest of the Rutherford children. While Cullen, three years her lesser, was chubby with childhood, Mia was lean. With each bound, Mia grew closer. The tips of her toes nipped at Branson’s heels. Cullen blinked once; Mia and Branson were on the ground.

     “Three Tevinters, but the Maker is victorious. I believe that’s my point.” Mia smirked.

     She pushed herself up, and offered her younger brother a hand. Branson pouted, but accepted

     “Here, Rose. You can have this back. Mother’d skin me if I took it.” Mia said.

     Cullen, prying her fingers from his collar, lifted Rosalie from his back. Mia outstretched her arms, and Cullen gladly forfeited the infant. Swiftly, she cupped Rosalie’s squirming toes and slid on the shoe.

       Rosalie squealed joyfully as Mia gave her a sloppy kiss.

     “Mi-a” Rosalie turned her head to avoid Mia’s assault. “No.”

      Over Cullen’s shoulder, the air grew heavy with the deep chime of bells. Cullen liked the bells, they made his insides buzz. The closer Cullen was to the Chantry, the more his body danced. Cullen had never seen magic, but he supposed this was what it felt like.

     “Mia.” Cullen called. Mia stopped teasing Rosalie, as if just hearing the bells. “Can we go? The service is starting, and the Revered Mother is already so cross. Poor Branson may not survive another beating.”

     “Can too!” Branson cried, and puffed out his chest. “I’m tough.”

     Mia and Cullen exchanged an amused look. She surveyed her brothers, head to toe.

     “Cullen’s right, we need to hurry.” Mia smirked. Cullen beamed, and Branson made a pass at his shoulder. “But first, Cullen? Give your vest to Bran.”

     “No.” Branson refused. He wrapped his hands around his waist in protection.

     “How come?” Cullen asked, ignoring Branson. “The Revered Mother should not be taunted, sister. Besides, I’ll look stupid in just my tunic.” Despite his words, Cullen slipped his vest from his shoulders and held it out.

      “Language.” Mia Warned. “Bran, trust me. Your stuff is Cullen’s old hand-me-downs. His vest is better.”

     Branson eyed the vest suspiciously before ripping it from Cullen’s grasp. Branson hung his vest on a branch of the oak tree.     

     The three Rutherford children, with Rosalie in tow, rushed passed the city gates. Mia, being the fastest, led the charge. Cullen was struggling to keep pace. Behind Cullen, Branson was beginning to overtake him. Where Cullen was doughy, Branson and Mia were thin. All the Rutherford children looked alike, but Branson was akin to Mia. Their hair, every bit as curly and thick as Cullen’s, was darker. The tips of their noses were to a point, much like their father’s. Cullen hoped that Rosalie would better resemble their mother. If she lost the baby weight and her white, wispy hair, Cullen would be the only Rutherford child that did not belong.

     Mia held open the door to the Chantry, and ushered her brothers inside. By the Grace of the Maker, the Revered mother had not yet begun the Chant. Mia waved goodbye to Cullen and Branson, and left to join their mother and father.

     As Cullen passed by the Revered Mother, he averted his gaze. She was no doubt scandalized by his lack of appropriate dress. Tugging at his absent collar, Cullen joined the mess of boys gathering along the altar. Each boy was dressed in their best tunic and vest. Branson brought his fingertips together in a “V” and parted the crowd. Cullen tried to follow, but Sister Theodosia, who was organizing the boys into a neat line, scowled at Cullen.   

     “Rutherford,” She whispered. “The usual spot, if you will.”

     “Yes, Sister Theodosia” Cullen smiled politely. He took his place in the center, front row. Cullen swallowed; it was the spot closest to the Revered Mother.

     In the front row, on the other side of the Revered Mother, were those pledged to the Faith. Many of the faces were the same, Theodosia and the other sisters, but Honnleath often had visitors. Both Redcliffe and Haven were major sites of pilgrimage. Brothers and Sisters of the Chantry commonly passed through. In the past year, however, Honnleath had seen just as many templar knights.      

      “Children of the Maker,” The Revered Mother began. “We read today from the Canticle of Threnodies. ‘Man is created, and no longer was it formless, ever-changing, but held fast, immutable, with words from heaven and for earth, sea, and sky. At last did the Maker from the living world make men immutable as the substance of the earth. With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities.’ We raise our voices to the Maker.”

     The choir accompanied the Revered Mother. Cullen’s voice, sweet and in-tune, was distinguishable in the crowd of boys. Unlike Branson, Cullen enjoyed the choir. It set him apart.

     Mia was the eldest. She was smart, fast, and witty.  Of the four Rutherford children, Mia had the most grace. Branson was the rebel. He wasn’t afraid to ask questions or speak his mind. The Revered Mother held Branson in great distaste. Six years of age, and Branson had already been subject to three beatings. Branson was the most memorable of his siblings. Rosalie was only two years of age. She was delicate, and full of life. Her laugh was hypnotic. Cullen, and the rest of the Rutherford children, doted on her. Compared to his siblings, Cullen was average.

      Here, in the Chantry, Cullen belonged.

     A muffled swear wafted over Cullen’s shoulder. He flinched, but dared not turn away from the Revered Mother. The other boys, and possibly Branson, were not so considerate. A wave of snickers filled the silence following the canticle of Threnodies.

     Cullen scanned the crowd for the other Rutherfords. As was usual, they were nested between the stone parapets along the front wall. Mia, eyes drooping, lazily rested her shoulder against the shelf that housed the Chant of Light. On her left, Father clutched a sleeping Rosalie. Mother dabbed at her upper lip with a strip of cloth. The lines of sweat were visible upon her brow.

     “Rutherford.”   

     Cullen tensed. Slowly, the Revered Mother pivoted to face the choir. Her shoulders were square, and her jaw was tight. Cullen, breath shallow, prepared himself to answer her summon. Her gaze met Cullen’s for the briefest of moments. From there, she directed her next words at Branson.       

     “Wait outside.” She spat. “You will not, again, make a mockery of the faith.”

     Cullen, giving into his urge, turned towards his brother. Cullen’s vest no longer sat upon Branson’s shoulders. Instead, it was draped across an unlit candelabrum along the back wall. In place of the vest, Branson’s soiled tunic was well visible. A thick line of dirt ran from the base of the tunic to the collar. Soft green stains circled the skin of his elbows.

    “Yes, Mother.” Branson was sucking on his top lip; he pulled it inward between his teeth. His posture perfectly mirrored that of the Revered Mother. Chin up, he did not appear afraid. “I am sorry. I was…hot.”

     “With haste, Rutherford.” The Revered Mother hissed. Her teeth clenched. “I shall send someone to reprimand you shortly.”

      Cullen watched as Branson yanked Cullen’s vest off the candelabrum. Taking his time, he passed through the open doors of the Chantry. Sickness pulled at Cullen’s stomach. This was hardly the first time Branson had been punished by the Revered Mother. But, she had never been so public about it. A messy tunic was hardly a sin. If anyone, but Branson, arrived disheveled, the Revered Mother would not be so vocal. Cullen himself was without a vest. It wasn’t exactly fair.

      Across the Chantry, Mia was glaring at Cullen. The blame was clear across her face. She shook her head in Branson’s direction. As she did, her bun came loose and fell to her shoulders. Father’s eyes were downcast, examining the floor. Mother was bouncing Rosalie on her chest, as if to hide her embarrassed.

       Not one of them said a word. Cullen followed their example.     

     By the time the Revered Mother finished her parting prayer, Cullen was anxious. The congregation, including the remaining Rutherfords, exited into the summer air. The stragglers approach the altar to speak with the Revered Mother. As was custom, Cullen waited with the choir. When the last patron was blessed, Cullen was released.

      Inside the chantry, Cullen kept pace with the other boys. Once outside, he broke into a sprint.

      “It’s too late, Cullen.” Nathaniel, one of the elder boys, called after him. “No doubt Branson walks with a limp from now on. Did you see the way her jaw twitched? I thought she’d have one of them Templars pull a sword on him right then.”

     The boy was met with multiple variations of “Shut it!” and a single “You think?”. For the most part, Branson was well liked. Nathaniel was no doubt teasing Cullen, not his brother.

     Cullen charged towards the back door of the chantry. In haste, his foot caught on a bundle of Spindleweed. Instead of falling on his face, Cullen uprooted the weed. Before setting his eyes on Branson, Cullen took a moment to regain his balance.

     Branson was seated on a wooden crate. Chest bare, he scratched lazily over his stomach.

      He was not alone.

     A grown man, more than three times Branson’s height, loomed over him. The man was in full Templar armor, save the helmet that was firmly tucked under his right arm. As Cullen grew closer, the Templar’s features became apparent. He had greasy black hair that fell over his eyes, and a thick beard to match. His nose was twisted, broken in more than one spot. Brown moles dotted the underside of his chin. Upon catching sight of Cullen, the Templar broke into a grin.  

     “Cullen? What are you—” the Templar, Cullen now recognized as Ser Vermillion, trailed off. “Slow down lad. There’s my man.”

     Cullen’s stomach settled.

     “You fall more than Rosie does.” Branson quipped.  Cullen blushed and tore at the remaining Spindleweed wrapped tightly around his boot. “It’s why I always win Guardian of the Golden City.” 

      Technically, it was why _Mia_ always won. 

     “Oh hush, childe.” Ser Vermillion laughed. “Or I’ll give you a real beating.”   

     “No, you would not.” Branson challenged. “You like me too much.”

     “Aye” Ser Vermillion agreed. “But I like Cullen more. I must defend the honor of the favorite Rutherford.”

      Cullen raised one of his golden eyebrows. The Templar shot him a sly wink.

     “But he’s not!” Branson beamed at Ser Vermillion. “I am.”

     Ser Vermillion, still grinning, retrieved his helmet from under his armpit. In a swift motion, he set it atop Branson’s flowing curls.

     “Aye.” Ser Vermillion repeated. “Hold this for me, lad.”

     Without Ser Vermillion to hold it upright, the helmet slid from Branson’s crown. Under the weight of the metal, either side of Branson’s head was quickly enclosed.

      “You have blinded me!” Branson accused, and shook his head violently. Branson hissed in pain. Instead of freeing him, his movement caused the sides of his head to collide with the dense metal. “The Revered Mother may hate me, but just think what she will do to you when she finds you have robbed a child of his sight. May the Maker punish you! Think of my poor Mother. Cullen, you will have to be my eyes. I have always wanted a seeing Mabari.”

      “You bairn. Stop your wining. Or I’ll get another Templar.” Ser Vermillion said. Once his brother was still, Ser Vermillion removed the helmet. “Good lad. I have a new trick for you, wee one.” 

     Ser Vermillion plunge a gloved hand into his scabbard. After a moment, he opened his palm to Branson. In the center of his palm sat a golden coin. Cullen joined his brother atop the barrel. He too was fond of Ser Vermillion’s sleight of hand.  With a flick of his wrist, Ser Vermillion wedge the coin between his middle and index fingers. He wiggled his fingers again, and made a tight fist.  The coin danced between his fingers, rolling over one knuckle and landing on the next. Cullen gaped, and Branson squealed in awe.

      “My turn!” Branson claimed. “Hand it over.”

     Branson held out his palm, expectantly. Cullen was used to this routine. Not one of the Rutherford children, even Mia, could follow Ser Vermillion’s tricks. Still, that never stopped Branson from trying.

      Branson dropped the coin on the first go. He was about to start his second, but the back door of the chantry slammed open.

      “Ser Vermillion.” A man called.

      This man, another Templar by the looks of him, Cullen did not recognize. He was a foot shorter than Ser Vermillion, with flaming red hair. He too had his helmet tucked under his arm. In greeting, Ser Vermillion raised his fist to his heart. In standard fashion, he extended his fist forward and to his right. The other templar hesitated before doing the same.

      “Ser Reginholz” Ser Vermillion smiled politely. “What can I do for you?”

     To Cullen, it came across as “why are you here”. By the unpleasant look that crossed Reginholz face, the flaming Templar agreed. 

      “The Rutherford kid.” Ser Reginholz rested his gaze on Cullen. “Err, the other one. The Revered Mother asked me to… lead him back to the Maker’s path.”

      With a slight sneer, Ser Reginholz took a step closer to Branson. Ser Vermillion took a step forward, while Cullen took a step back. Branson did not move from atop the crate.  

      “That will not be necessary, ser.” Ser Vermillion’s voice was pleasant, but straining. “I’ve already seen to it. The lads not going to be causing any more trouble.”

      “I see.” Ser Reginholz’s eyes raked over Branson’s face and exposed chest. “He seems in good health. I don’t know how you do it in Starkhaven, but here in Ferelden, we attend to our youth.” He lowered his voice. “and I think, _ser_ , it’s your best interest to allow me to _attend_.”

      In an instant, Ser Vermillion’s fingers were clasped tight around the holt of his sword. Although it remained unsheathed, his fingers twitched in an upward motion. To Cullen, the message was clear. Ser Reginholz did not reach for his sword. Instead, he cupped his slack jaw, and clicked his tongue to his cheek. When Ser Reginholz took a step back, the corners of Cullen’s lips twitched in victory.

     “That’s how it is?”

      “I would think so.” Responded Ser Vermillion. “You may tell the Revered Mother that wee Rutherford’s punishment has matched his crime.”

     “As you wish.” Ser Reginholz grunted. He turned his back on the Rutherfords and Ser Vermillion. Before closing the door, he muttered a phrase under his breath. “The boy’s mine on the morrow.” 

     The door shut without a sound.

      “He’ll be here ‘on the morrow’, you twat.” Branson yelled at no one in particular. He hopped off the crate, and returned the coin to Ser Vermillion. “Did you see his face when you pulled your sword on him? I thought you were going to go to blows. You were perfect.”

     With ease, Ser Vermillion scooped up Branson in his arms. It was with the same ease at which Mia would pick up Rosalie. Branson beamed at Ser Vermillion, but Ser Vermillion’s own smile did not reach his eyes.

     “Lad,” Ser Vermillion sighed. “You need to stop with this nonsense. You don’t see Cullen or Mia causing this sort of trouble. I’ve never once seen that lass with a scratch let alone a beating. It’s time for you to grow up.”

     Branson scrunched his brow.

      “Why now? That’s not what you said before.”

     “I’m leaving for Orlais, on the moro.”

     “Don’t you worry. I can take a few beatings in the meantime.” Branson grinned. “And then you’ll be back, putting the ‘fear of the maker into their hearts’, yeah?”

      “Kid. I’m tryn’a say I’m not coming back. I tried to tell ya’ a fortnight ago. Though, you didn’t seem to keen on my message then. Mia did. So, I dropped it.”

       Branson was silent.

     “Put me down. Now!” Branson screamed and kicked in his arms. “Now!”

     Ser Vermillion did as he requested.

     As soon as Branson’s feet hit the ground, he sprinted off in the direction Cullen had come. When he reached the patch of Spindleweed, Branson jumped in a dramatic arch. Father Vermillion watched after him, a pout in his lips. Cullen was used to seeing the expression on Rosalie’s face. On a grown man, it looked very unsettling.

     “I’m leaving at dawn.” Ser Vermillion said. “You watch out for that one, Cullen.”

      Ser Vermillion picked up his helmet and placed it atop his head. He used both his palms to ease the helmet past his thick curls. In full armor, Cullen no longer recognized the man in front of him.

     “Yesser.” Cullen responded feebly.

      “Good lad.” Ser Vermillion gave Cullen a lopsided smile. Before turning away, Ser Vermillion placed a gauntleted hand on Cullen’s shoulder. It was heavy, and altogether unpleasant. At the risk of interrupting the moment, Cullen silently mouthed an “ow”. Ser Vermillion chuckled. His laughter was followed by a moment of uncomfortable silence. When it was apparent neither Cullen nor Ser Vermillion had anything more to say, Ser Vermillion followed in Ser Reginholz’s wake. He entered the Chantry in the same defeated manner, but chose to forgo the dramatic door slam.  

     Cullen, turning his back on the path home, crossed over the field to the village gate. This time, he was careful to watch for any dangerous weeds in his path. With some effort, Cullen pushed himself over the fence. It was only slightly taller than his waist, but Cullen had a hard time getting his leg up. After he was successfully straddling the fence, Cullen propelled himself into the field. Without the playful squeals of his siblings, the field was quiet. Cullen reached the oak tree. Mia often chose this tree for home base. It was the largest landmark in sight, very out of place in the wheat.

     Cullen sighed in relief. Branson’s vest, still cloaked in dirt and grass, hung on the lowest branch of the oak.

      “Maker.” Cullen whispered.

     He pressed his fingertips into the coarse bark. Cullen often got splinters from hopping over the fence. He imagined the oak would not let him off so easy. Cullen could almost feel the sting of shallow cuts along his arms.     

    Cullen contemplated putting on the vest. As night approached, the air was getting cooler. It would be a tad tight, but not unmanageable. In the end, Cullen decided against it. Bran was already upset, and Cullen did not wish to be yelled at.

     Cullen, accustom to traveling on the heels of the three other Rutherford children, adopted a solemn pace home. On the other side of the fence, a rock sat in-between the line of gravel and the prairie grass. Cullen kicked it. It bounced twice, and then skittered up the path. When Cullen reached it a second time, he kicked it again. Without Bran and Mia urging him on, Cullen continued his little game.

     Finally, Cullen reached the front gate of the Rutherford residence. Cullen picked up the rock and placed it in the center of the nearest flower bed. If he left it out in the open, Branson was sure to take it. Cullen preferred not to supply Branson with ammunition. Although his brother had terrible aim, Branson was strong. On the off chance that he landed a hit, Cullen would be bruised for weeks.

      Inside, Branson was perched on the edge of his chair. Mother, although she stood a good five feet away, loomed over him. As Cullen approached, Mother withdrew her attention from Branson. Her scowl was replaced with a watery smile. She crossed the room, arms outstretched. When she was within arm’s reach, she cupped his jaw with both hands.

      “Oh, my sweet boy. I had nearly forgotten… the vest. I had not the leather for another.” Mother cooed. She parted his thick curls, and placed a kiss to his crown. “Thank you, Cauliflower.”

     Cullen peered over Mother’s shoulder. Branson, still seated patiently, watched him with hooded eyes. His gaze was distant and contemplative. Branson, even after defeat, always had a fighting spirit. Now, Cullen wasn’t so sure. He had never seen his brother look so… vulnerable. After a moment, Branson noticed Cullen’s curious looks. Their eyes locked. After a moment of processing, Branson scowled. His trance broke, and he leapt out of his chair. Without being excused, Branson stomped out of the room.

     “Branson. You best turn on your heel. Now. ” Mother snapped, but it was too late. Branson was well past her reach. “You wicked child! When you were within me, the Maker must have been ever so scornful! I shall not have another. I cannot risk any more shame. Such disobedience, and at such a young age.”

     Mother’s voice petered off.

     “Fetch Mia for me, won’t you my boy?” Mother asked. Her voice was soft, but her face was cold. A shiver went up Cullen’s spine. “I need a word.”

 

     Cullen nodded, and followed Branson’s path out of the room. When he reached the stairs, Cullen stared up the hallway. He had hoped to spot Branson. His brother was quite fond of eavesdropping, after all. Cullen was surprised to not see him peering down through the bars of the railing.   

     “Mia?” Cullen called.

     Cullen considered raising his voice. Mother did not have many rules. Of those rules, she enforced hardly any. Screaming inside the house was a “flexible rule”. The only two to follow it were Cullen and Mia. Rosalie was young. She cried and threw tantrums. Mother never asked her to do otherwise. Branson, on the other hand, was asked constantly. Mother, Cullen supposed, had more important rules to enforce with him. Even Father did not follow this rule. Although he had not yet seen four decades, his ears were like those of the village elders. Even since childhood, father had been unable to hear soft noise. When Cullen and his siblings addressed Father, they raised their voice on instinct.

    Cullen gripped the railing and climbed the stairs. The entire upstairs was one room, divided by a single curtain. Branson and Cullen shared the space to the left of the curtain. His bed lay along the far wall, while Branson’s ran parallel. Mia owned all of the space to the right. One day, Cullen supposed, Rosalie would join her. For now, Mother preferred to have Rosalie by her side. She was still feeding upon Mother’s breast. After Mother had her weaned, she would join the other Rutherford children upstairs. Cullen was grateful for her absence. Although he loved his sister, Rosalie did not sleep through the night. Cullen, and Mia, deserved their sleep.        

     “Mia.” Cullen asked again, pulling back Mia’s curtain.

     Mia sat atop her bed, legs crossed. She was crouched over a book, unbound hair flowing over her shoulder. Her index finger, acting as a bookmark, was wedged between two pages. She shut the book, and raised her brows at Cullen.

      “Cullen?” She paused. “You called?”

     “Yes. I—What are you reading?” He asked, distracted. He pointed to the book in her lap. “Is that another one of Genitivi’s?”       

     The corner of Mia’s mouth curled into a smile. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and scooted to her right. She patted the empty spot next to her. Cullen followed her command without hesitation. He let the curtain fall shut behind him as he settled into her side.

“Tales of the Destruction of Thedas” Her eyes glistened mischievously. “Written in Denerim, bound in Orlais! Transcribed by Genitivi’s own apprentice. If the cover is to be believed, anyway.”

     “How?” Cullen asked. His eyes were wide with surprise. “Mia, that came from the Chantry.

     “I didn’t steal it.” Mia smirked. “I’m not Branson. Sister Hortensia lent it to me. It’s not like I asked for it! She offered. I just mentioned how fond I was of Genitivi’s work.” Mia snickered into her palm. “I also might have mentioned how fond I was of Orlesian craftsmanship. Ferelden binding doesn’t hold the same flair. After all, Cullen, no book worth it’s spit is without a golden spine.”

     “It’s not real gold is it?” Cullen asked.

     “No.” Mia laughed, and threw an arm over Cullen’s shoulder. “Not this copy, anyway. I imagine some of them are.”

      “Like Emperor Florian’s?” Cullen smirked. “You think his library is solid gold? Pages and all?”

      Mia’s laugh was cut off.

     “You didn’t hear?” Her eyes flittered to the other side of the room. “I suppose not. I just found out this morning. Orlais no longer has an emperor, Cullen. He’s been assassinated.”

     “What?” Cullen asked, curious. “I don’t understand.”

      “Assassinated.” Mia repeated. Mia lowered her voice to a whisper. “It means killed, Cullen. Word just arrived last week. It’s why the Templars are being recalled.” Mia paused. “Well, not our Templars. I don’t imagine Ferelden would be eager to aid Orlais.”

    “And what about Ser Vermillion? He said he was leaving at dawn.” Cullen whispered, mirroring Mia.    

     “Him, too.” Mia nodded her head knowingly. “The Order of the Free Marches made a pledge.  They are sending templar’s to  Orlais, for the time being. They will need the extra security… while they re-stabilize.”

    “But,” Cullen asked. “You said Ferelden doesn’t have to go. He doesn’t have to go.”

      “He’s from Starkhaven, Cullen.” Mia squeezed his shoulder tighter. “The accent didn’t give it away? He wasn’t going to be here forever. I—”

     “And…what about the books?” Cullen interrupted. He didn’t want to talk about Ser Vermillion. Not right now, anyway. “Who do they belong to, now?”

     “I don’t know,” Mia admitted, biting her bottom lip. “I suppose whoever takes over for Emperor Florian.”

      “And who’s that?” Cullen asked.

      “I don’t know, Cullen!” Mia snapped again. Cullen recoiled slightly, and his sister shot him an apologetic look. Mia liked to be the smartest in the room. Clearly, not knowing was bothering her. “I asked around. Father didn’t know. Sister Hortensia didn’t know. Knight Commander Jabbeth didn’t know. I don’t even think they know.”

      “Princess Evangeline.” Cullen hummed. “It should have been Princess Evangeline.”

     Mia blinked fondly at Cullen. She put her book down, and removed her arm from Cullen’s shoulder. Folding her belly over the side of her bed, Mia rummaged in the mess of books underneath. With a small hum of triumph, she pulled out an older book. It was clearly Ferelden, leather skinned and loosely bound.

     “Orlesian Royalty and Nobility. By—”

      “Mar-kiss Freyette.” Cullen smiled. “I remember.”

      “Marquis, my dear Cullen” Mia corrected, raising her voice in a playful manner. “You must remember, it is an Orlesian name. If it’s not ridiculous, it’s not Orlesian.”

      Mia flipped the book open to the first page. It was a picture, of sorts. Names were handwritten in tiny boxes. All the boxes were connected together with thin lines, like the branches of a tree. Cullen had seen it many times already. Mia often read to him by candlelight. Although he was not fascinated by Orlais like Mia was, Cullen enjoyed a good story. He had a suspicion that Mia knew the page by heart. She traced her index finger along the box directly below Emperor Florian.

    “The only heir. Or at least, according to the literature. ”

     “And, what about Princess Evangeline?” Cullen asked. “Was she ‘assassinated’?”

     “No. She was sick. Babies get sick. Sometimes they don’t get better. ” 

     “I know that.” Cullen said.

     His mind strayed to Rosalie. Last winter, she had a cough for some time. Mother had called in a local herbalist. She refused to request aid from the Circle on Lake Calenhad. It wasn’t just a matter of coin. Both Mother and Father refused to invite an “abomination” into their home. Cullen, at the time, was relieved. Magic had scared Cullen. By the Maker’s blessing, Rosalie got better.

      But, now, Cullen was left to wonder. No longer was Cullen scared. Now, he was curious. Not Mia level curious, but curious all the same.

     “MIA!”

     Both Cullen and Mia’s heads whipped up from the book. Mother, red in the face, pulled at the curtain. She eyed the book curiously, and rolled her eyes.

     “I called upon you. Did you not heed your brother?” She asked, teeth clenched.

     Cullen gave Mia a sheepish look.

      “My apologies Mother.” Mia said. Not surprisingly, for Mia anyway, her tone was sincere. “I fear I may have distracted Cullen on his quest. I apologize to you too, dear brother. I can get carried away. What would you have of me, mother?”

     Mother eyed her two eldest children. Seeing them together, snuggled around a book, letted the red from her face.

    “I suppose nothing, I—” She paused. “You will put the boys to bed?”

     Mia nodded.

     “Then goodnight.”

     She leaned over both her children, and gave them each a kiss to the cheek. She flinched towards Cullen’s side of the room, no doubt where Branson was, but ultimately made her way to the staircase.  

     “I’m sorry.” Cullen apologized. His voice sped up from nervousness. “I just forgot. I didn’t mean for Mother to come up. I hope she didn’t need you for anything important.”

     “It’s okay, Cullen.” Mia said. “She… she wanted to talk about today. What happened at the Chantry.”

     “Oh.” Cullen muttered. “She doesn’t think that you—”

     “It doesn’t matter.” Mia, getting off her bed, sighed. She reached for an object on the windowsill, and wrapped her fingers around a box of tinder. She held it out to Cullen. “Here, for you.”

     Cullen eyed it skeptically.

      “Oh! And this, too, of course.” Mia reached for the discarded book on her bed. Instead of grabbing the Ferelden one, like Cullen expected, Mia handed Cullen her new Genitivi book. “Maferath’s betrayal is in chapter 3. There, I thought I’d save you some reading. There are pictures, too. Genitivi’s apprentice has a nice hand. Quite exquisite.”

     Cullen wasn’t sure how to thank her. Instead, he took her offering, with a gentle smile.

     “Not a drop of wax, you got it? Sister Hortensia would know it was you, anyway.” Mia said, and dismissed him with a wave. “Goodnight, Cullen.”

     “Goodnight Mia.”

     Cullen left her side of the room, a grin creeping up his face. When he pulled back his side of the curtain, the room was dark. Between the start and end of Mia and Cullen’s conversation, the sky had grown dark. Cullen peered over to Branson’s bed. Sure enough, there was a lump underneath the covers. He was facing the wall, back to Cullen. It looked like Branson was asleep, but Cullen knew better.

     “Goodnight, Bran.” Cullen whispered.

     The lump, which was his brother, did not move. Cullen settled into his own bed. He lit the candle, and opened Mia’s book. After a moment’s hesitation, Cullen flipped to Chapter 3. Mia knew him well; Maferath’s betrayal was his favorite part.

     After an hour, Cullen blew his light out. He closed his eyes, and let his bed of blonde curls sink into his pillow. A feather poked the back of Cullen’s neck, and he readjusted his neck. Right before Cullen fell into the Fade, a sound erupted from Branson’s side of the “room”. After a moment of listening, Cullen began to think he imagined it. But, in the next moment, it happened again. The sob, followed by a deep breath was so quiet. Cullen had seen Branson cry. He cried, kicked, and screamed when things did not go his way. This was different.

    Branson sniffled, as another wave of sobs erupted. Cullen dared not say a word. Branson would not want him to. Instead, he clenched his eyes shut even tighter. Putting forth his best effort to lay still, Cullen fell asleep to his brother’s tears.

     “Maker’s Balls!”

     Cullen jolted upright. He had been fast asleep, deep in the fade, when his brother’s curse roused him. A quick scan of the room, and Cullen was certain it was not yet dawn. He was also certain Branson was not in his bed.

     A cold morning breeze wafted through the open window. Cullen swiveled in his bed as his eyes rested upon Branson. He was standing in the windowsill.  He had one foot on his headboard, and the other dangling in thin air.

      “Bran!” Cullen hissed. This caught Branson off guard, and he fumbled slightly. Most of his body was still inside, however, so Branson nearly fell back onto his bed. “What’s happening.”

     “I’m going to—” Branson said stubbornly. “I don’t have to tell you. So, there.”

     He made a face at Cullen, and continued to climb out the window.    

     “You’re going to see him, right? Ser Vermillion?” Cullen asked, and Branson froze in place.

     A passing breeze blew Branson’s hair over his eyes. It looked as though a wave of darkness had fallen over his brother’s face.  

     “You can wake Mia, if you want.” Branson spat. “Wake Mother and Father, for all I care. It doesn’t matter what you do, Cullen. I’m still going. Go ahead. Tell on me.”

     Cullen had actually been considering it. But, now that Branson said it out loud, it seemed like a bad idea. After the stunt Branson pulled yesterday, not one of the elder Rutherfords would be pleased.

     “I wasn’t going to.” Cullen lied. “I—I want to come.”

     Cullen hadn’t expected to say it, it just slipped out of his mouth.  It felt right, Cullen realized with a pang. He really did want to go.

     “He is my friend, too.” Cullen pouted, and stuck out his bottom lip. “Just because he likes you better, doesn’t mean he’s not my friend. It doesn’t mean I like him any less. I don’t know when he’s going to come back. I don’t even know if he’s coming back. Branson, I deserve a goodbye. I deserve a goodbye as much as you do.” Cullen paused. “So there.”

      For Branson’s part, he looked almost as surprised as Cullen felt.

     “Fine, have it your way.” Branson rolled his eyes. “But, you have to keep up. I’m not stopping for you to catch your breath. I’m not Mia.”

     “Deal,” Cullen agreed. “but I’m not hopping out a window. There has to be a better way.”

      “Not unless you want to pass Rosalie. One small mistake and she’s awake and screaming. This is the only way. So…are you coming Cullen?”

      Cullen considered it.

     “You first.” Cullen requested. “Then, I’ll go.”

     “You Skittish Mabari, Cullen.” Branson smirked. “Where is your sense of adventure?”

     Without another word, Branson ducked under the window frame and out into the night. Cullen approached the window. Branson’s knuckles where still clasped tightly to the bottom of the frame They met eyes, and Branson let go.

     He landed in the garden with a soft thud. After a moment of adjustment, he motioned for Cullen to follow. Cullen sat on the window frame, silently cursing his brother.

     He couldn’t do this.

     This was crazy.

     This was reckless.

     This was—

     Cullen pushed himself away from the window. It was over in a second, and his feet connected with the ground. Cullen righted himself, as Branson whooped quietly. Cullen had done it. In a fit of bravery, and thoughtlessness, Cullen had acted.

          Branson motioned impatiently, and Cullen followed him through the dawn light. True to his word, Branson did not slow down. Cullen gasped for air, but pushed forward. His sides were hurting, but he did not stop. He had said he could keep up. Cullen would not be proven wrong.

     Cullen exhaled deeply, energy, like magic running through his body. It felt great. 

     When they reached the Chantry, it was already bustling. A handful of Templars, both foreign and local, were preparing the mounts. Most of the men and women were in full armor, but Cullen could spot a select few with sleep-mussed hair. Cullen followed Branson as he weaved through the crowd. Both he and Branson were looking for a particular Templar. One with greasy black hair, and a thick accent.

     “And I pick the wee one up, and the bugger, he says—”

     “Ser!” Branson called, a slight bite a defiance playing on his brows. “Did you forget something.”

     Ser Vermillion’s eyes lit up when they rested upon Branson. He broke out into a wide grin, pointy teeth and all. Pulling away from the other Templar, Ser Vermillion approached the Rutherford boys.

     “Bran, my boy.” Ser Vermillion said as he opened his arms to Branson. Without hesitation, Branson launched himself at Ser Vermillion. All his hostility melted into the Templar’s arms.   “See, there’s a good lad. I was hoping you’d come.” Ser Vermillion smiled. He looked up from Branson, and caught sight of Cullen. “Both of you.”

     Cullen could feel his cheeks heat up in a blush.

     “Do you have to?” Branson mumbled. He buried his face into the crook of Ser Vermillion’s neck. “There’s nothing in Orlais that you can’t find in Ferelden.”

      ‘Eavesdropping blighter’, Cullen thought.

     “I don’t know about that lad. Have you ever had an’thing besides you ‘ma’s cooking. Trust me. Beef and potatoes for months on end leave a man hungry for lighter things. ‘sides, it’s not like I have a choice.”

     “And if you did?” Branson asked. “You would stay?”

      Ser Vermillion sighed, but did not give Branson and answer. Instead, he let Bran go and stood back to full height. He fished around in his pockets.

     “I got something for you, boy.” Ser Vermillion said. “Open up.”

           Ser Vermillion nudged Branson’s palm open. Right in the center, he placed a gold coin. It caught the light of the rising sun, and glittered a brilliant orange. Cullen had seen this coin many times. It was the coin Ser Vermillion used for his slight-of-hand.

     “Don’t go spending it, you hear.” Ser Vermillion warned. “It was a gift from my ‘da. Bravest man I’d known. Right until the end, the man didn’t let anybody push him around. You hear me, lad?”

     The rims of Cullen’s eyes were laced with wetness. Cullen watched his brother, as he fought back tears.

     “I hear you.” Branson nodded. “You will write me?”

     “You can read?” Father Vermillion boomed with laughter. “I don’t believe it for a moment.”      

     Branson frowned and punched Ser Vermillion in the arm. The man was in full armor, so the attack had little effect. 

     “I can’t, but Cullen can! And Mia. That’s no excuse.”

     “Is that so,” Ser Vermillion raised an eyebrow to Cullen. “I suppose I’ll write Cullen then. No point writing a lad who’s too wee to write back.”

    “I—I’ll learn. I promise.” Branson stammered. “I’ll use your letters as practice! There, now you have to write me!”

     Ser Vermillion scooped Branson into his arms with a tight squeeze. He strode over to Cullen, and reached out a hand. To Cullen’s (pleasant) surprise, Ser Vermillion’s hands were un-gauntleted. He pulled Cullen up against his chest, and Cullen could not help wrapping his arms around the templar’s waist. Ser Vermillion ran his fingers through Cullen’s curls. Cullen, not able to hold it back, began to sob. Still wrapped in Ser Vermillion’s arms, Branson was crying just as reverently.

     “My boys.” Ser Vermillion croaked. “You take care of each other, you hear? Stay tough. ”

     All three of them extracted themselves from the jumble of limbs. Tears were unabashedly falling down Cullen’s cheeks. Branson, on the other hand, was vigorously wiping them away. 

     “But not too tough.” Ser Vermillion smiled, and swept his thumb under Branson’s right eye. “A templar’s got to know when to be tough. And when to be compassionate.”

     From somewhere in the crowd of Templars, a woman’s voice called for action. Ser Vermillion grinned at both Rutherford boys. He pushed his helmet over his head, hiding his toothy smile. The soldier in front of them clenched his right fist, and placed it over his heart. In a sharp motion, he thrust his fist outward. It was the first time Ser Vermillion had offered either of them a salute. Cullen’s insides glowed with pride.

     Ser Vermillion turned on his heels and joined the Templar ranks. Branson and Cullen watched in silence as the Templars mounted and left Honnleath in pairs. Ser Vermillion, with his helmet atop his head, had blended into the crowd. Finally, only the Ferelden Templars were left. They too left, funneling into the chantry.

     Cullen turned to face Branson. His brother’s eyes were still locked on the distance. The retreating Templars were still visible on the horizon.

     “He’ll be back, someday.” Cullen said.

     Branson did not respond. He didn’t need to.

      “Just you wait, Bran.” Cullen paused, watching the last glint of helmet disappear in the distance. “I’m going to be just like him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Boy Howdy, I just love the Rutherford Family! Talk to me below, if you enjoyed! <3


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